He stood stiff, clearly prepared for a handshake. So when my mother wrapped her arms around him instead, he froze completely. His eyes found mine over her shoulder, wide with something like panic.
"Thank you," she said into his chest. "For taking care of my son when we couldn't."
"I—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "He takes care of himself. I just provided the apartment."
"You provided more than that." She stepped back, patted his arm. "Tobias told me what you did for him. How you helped him find his way back to himself."
Vance looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. "Anyone would have—"
"No." Her voice was firm. "They wouldn't. Most people would have turned him in, called the family, or tried to get a reward. You gave him space to figure out who he was." She smiled. "That's not nothing."
Vance struggled with the unexpected warmth. He wasn't used to this. To acceptance, gratitude, being welcomed instead of tolerated.
"Mrs. Langford—"
"Eleanor. Please." She glanced at me, eyes bright. "If you're important to Tobias, you're important to us."
My father was waiting in the living room.
He stood by the window, scotch in hand, silhouetted against the city lights. When we entered, he turned. For a moment, I saw the man I had spent years fearing. The disapproval. The expectations. The weight of generations of Langford legacy pressing down on us both.
Then he set down his drink and crossed the room.
"Mr. Kessler." He extended his hand. Not warm, exactly. But not hostile either. "I understand you served."
"Yes, sir. Army. Eight years."
"Which unit?"
"10th Mountain Division. Three tours in Afghanistan."
Something flickered in my father's expression. Respect, perhaps. Or recognition. "Combat?"
"Yes, sir."
A long pause. They were still shaking hands, measuring each other as men do. Testing strength, assessing character, deciding if the other was worthy.
"Good," my father said finally. "Discipline matters."
"It does, sir."
My father released his hand, picked up his scotch, and took a long sip before speaking again.
"My son seems happy."
It wasn't a question, but it demanded an answer.
"I hope so, sir." Vance's voice was steady. "I'm trying to make sure he is."
"See that you do."
And that was it. That was my father's version of acceptance. Gruff, minimal, wrapped in expectation. But it was there. It was real.
Vance caught my eye across the room. I smiled slightly. He didn't smile back, but some of the rigidity left his spine.
First hurdle cleared.
Dinner was awkward.
